Somewhere In Between
by Miss DiNozzo
Summary: This is basically a series of one shots I didn't know what to do with. I'll also be interested in taking requests for stories in the future.
1. Time

Time. It is a single constant that remains in an infinity of variables. Family, friends, dreams— they don't really last forever. They are just one of an unnumbered sum of stops along the continuum of life. They can fool you into thinking they will stay with you until the end of time, but the clock will never stop, and they will be forced to disappear. These things have an expiration date that, while reaching far beyond your own lifetime, will ultimately come. And what will you have left then? All that there will be is the merciless passing, the whirl of the hopes you based yourself on fleeing from their very creator. Emptiness.

So with nothing left, you shouldn't expect to keep going. You will feel the weight of the losses on your shoulders every day, pushing you to your absolute limits. And one day you will break, and the semblance of structure you will have imagined will fall. After that, there will be no turning back. You are as good as gone. The people who you cared about, the memories you saved, the love that you felt. You are as much of a meaningless point on their scales as they are on yours. Oblivion is and always has been your final destination.

Your entire life, you were destined to forget. You were destined to be forgotten. But the inevitable has not come to you yet. You still have a precious piece of time work with. The mere seconds you possess could change everything in your small world. Inside this tiny piece of eternity, you need to make your days count. Because after this, you have nothing. You are nothing. After this, you are out of time.

Or at least that's what people say. I sincerely hope that one day you will find the missing piece of this twisted puzzle. That you will understand that all hope is not gone, that your life is not dictated by an unspecified timer. Yes, things will come into and exit your life, but maybe what society believes is wrong. I just pray that you will see things as clearly as I do now. And believe me, the things that mean something to you will be lost, but they will never be forgotten. I'll leave you with one simple question, one that I don't have the answer to.

Does remembering make it easier? Or is remembering just that much worse?


	2. To Shards, To Pieces

She could tell them that they don't know the whole story. She could tell them that they don't have all the facts. She could tell them that they're misreading the situation. But that would be a lie. The truth is, they know the story very well—maybe even better than she does. And she's spent her entire life trying to deny it. 

I used to think that tears were a silly thing. They were a show of weakness, and weakness was an entity to fear. One's strength was one's pride, and without such, one could not survive. Tears demonstrated a lack of experience, an ill preparedness for the world. They were the most striking show of cowardice, instability, and immaturity. Many people still possess this belief, but I am no longer one of them. I dropped that a long time ago, and now I'm not sure why I ever believed in it. The same dreaded tears that once brought me guilt and regret are now the only things that bring me comfort. That's why I feel no shame or embarrassment as I sit here now, in a ball on the floor. That's why I am not afraid to let the tears flow freely.

I shudder at what I have done. I have turned my back on those that once cared for me; I have abandoned every single smiling face I ever saw; I have given up the life I was once all too eager to live. And all for what? This, just this. This big house, very beautiful and very cold. This existence that is nothing but loneliness and anger. This broken heart that will never be mended. All I have now is the emptiness that surrounds my entire world, my small, insignificant world. I could have been, _should_ have been more. Every movement I make feels forced, now. Nothing is free and simple anymore. Happiness is a word that no longer dwells in my vocabulary. The fond memories I have of the past are fading steadily with each passing hour, and I hate myself for that fact every day.

I sob silently into my arms, praying for something, anything. Anything that will stop the daily tedium that my life has become. But nothing happens, of course, because nothing ever happens. It's always the same, so I don't know why I'm always just as disappointed as I was the last time that my prayers were left unanswered, but I am. I hug myself tighter, trying to calm the tremors that are sweeping through me. I'd like to say that what happened was the fault of others, that this whole situation was the result of a rough chain of events or a string of bad luck. I know that isn't exactly plausible, but in my emotional wreck, I've welcomed every opportunity to forget that I did this to myself. I would be happy to forget that, if it were possible. But it's not possible.

The dark shadows on my walls dance as the trees blow in the wind. Darkness always made me feel alone when I was younger, back when I was a normal person, but it almost feels warm now as it blankets me and my life. When I expunged every other thing from my universe, I let the darkness stay. When the walls were caving in and the sky was crashing down, as they usually were, the darkness was there for me. It is the one thing that never turned me away.

This is where they left me, or where I really left myself. In this very room, I denied the truth, defended the lies, and lost the best friends I would ever have. And this is sort of where I've stayed. There's nowhere else for me to go. It's hard to pick yourself up in a situation like this, when there isn't any motivation to keep moving forward. After a while you become numb, though, and while standing up is just as hard, the pain eases. At some point, you have to stop feeling, and my body has bled all it can bleed.

But do you ever truly stop feeling guilty, regretting every decision that led you down this path? My theory is that grief is an illusion, and that the unhappiness and dissatisfaction we often feel is simply a figment of our subconscious. The anguish is a coping mechanism invented by human nature. We rid ourselves of the conflicting emotions built up in our system through tears and misery. To our minds, this reaction reveals the devastation we feel, shows the weight we carry on our shoulders, but to our bodies, this twisted thing is nothing more than the natural release of negative energies. To end the dejection is like flipping a switch. Being somber is a choice, and being joyous is a choice. A person could hold onto the balloon of melancholy that hangs over their head, or they could release the strings and let go. I just haven't chosen yet.

I don't see what is keeping me from moving past the tragedy, but it has an incredible influence. I drag myself through my world because of it. My life is like that of a soul with no body— always searching for something that may or may not exist. There is no visible purpose, anymore. What I did is something that can't be changed or fixed. My actions have long standing consequences, and I knew that going in, but here I am, being punished for them every day of my meaningless existence. I often wonder if it was worth it, and I know the answer, but resigning myself to that makes me feel so much worse. So I just don't decide.

In all actuality, my crimes are heinous, especially when considering their effects. I sold my soul in hopes of glory, honor, and the ultimate happiness. None of those things ever came to me; none of those things are mine now. Glory and honor? Those come from within, the son and daughter of integrity and passion. And my happiness? Let's just say I couldn't be any less happy if I tried. I had everything I needed before, but I was too blind to notice. My ambitions and insecurities clouded the fact that my reality was everything I'd ever wanted out of my life. But nothing is ever enough for me, is it? I always want more, even when my cup is overflowing. And because of that, I lost every single thing in this cruel place that ever mattered to me. My friends, my family, my dignity, my faith— all of them are casualties in my war of greed.

Being surrounded by people who cared about me made me feel loved, and now that that is gone, I realize how much I never appreciated it. Because of my stupidity, I am alone, and I notice this more than ever before. The worst feeling in the world is to know that there is nothing to wake up to in the mornings and nothing to wait for you to come to bed. It's like being a broken toy, abandoned by the child who no longer wants to play, put away and forgotten about. Out of sight, out of mind, right? If only that worked both ways.

I'm sure none of the others think of me anymore. How long has it been now? Eight months? Eight months of not really living, just existing, wandering through fog. By now they've all likely moved on and don't give a damn about my problems anymore. If they did, by some miracle, care a little, no one has stepped up to show it. I mean, they must have always felt about me what I know of myself: I'm the screw up. If I hadn't played Eve and eaten the apple, mankind wouldn't have fallen and this would still be a happy place, a place where I don't feel alone. Maybe one day it could be that comforting place again. But wishful thinking isn't getting me anywhere, as time has clearly displayed, so why bother?

But they were the ones who gave up on me, even though I tried to fix it. They turned away, and never even gave me a chance to explain myself. I fought a losing battle, so hard that I thought for just a moment that maybe this could be mended. They were stronger, though, and knocked me to the ground as if I was a blade of grass and they were the wind. It was strangely gentle, but the cruelty remains. I can feel the thickness in my throat trying to choke me out. The intensity of these emotions is laboring my breathing and the tears slow.

I am hyperventilating, but I don't care. My pathetic self pity is gone now, replaced by anger and disgust. Why should I cry for my loss? They _abandoned _me, for God's sake! Sure, I screwed up, but apparently they've never heard of forgiveness! I rise from the cold floor with a newfound sense of brutality. Screaming, I kick my foot into the leg of my kitchen table, watching as it buckles and slams to the ground. Just like my life did.

"They. Ruined. Me!" With each new word, I jam my leg into the wood, shouting and screeching all the while. _They _did this. _They _made me feel this way. _They_ made a mess of everything. When the table has had enough, I leap to the cupboards, grabbing at my glasses and plates. Effortlessly shattering the objects, I watch their pieces fall to the floor. I throw them at the place where I destroyed the table, I slam them on the counter, I project them at the wall. The cupboard empties quickly, but my anger has not dissipated in the least. I'd like to continue wrecking my possessions, but there is nothing left for me to decimate.

I crumple to the floor in a heap, ignoring the stinging in my bleeding hands and feet, because it's true. I have killed everything I ever touched— my friends, my family, my home, and my life. And I have the nerve to sit here and dismantle my belongings. I steal a glance at the remnants of my kitchen, and guilt consumes me. The shards of glass and plastic are only my failures personified. They were always waiting for me when I needed them, ceaselessly in that cupboard or across from my stove. And I wrecked them. Why am I alone? What did I do to deserve this? _What's wrong with me?_

My stomach sinks as the last question floats through my mind. There _must _be something wrong with me. It has to be grotesque or something, because it makes the people who once considered me their family cringe away. To total strangers, it must be worse. They automatically judge me because they don't know me, and if what I have is bad enough to turn my closest relationships sour, making new ones will be nearly impossible. The truth of the matter is that I can't make them love me if they just don't.

I crawl carefully around the shards of glass into my living room. The sofa is inviting, a safe place for me to be swallowed by my own insecurities. I wander slowly onto the furniture and nestle myself into the back of it. For a while, I just sit there in complete numbness, trying as hard as I can not to feel anymore. Feeling is what got me into this mess, anyway.

Before all of this happened, there were days when I pondered my self-worth. I blamed myself for anything and everything that went wrong, and it really killed what little confidence I had to begin with. There were a lot of times when I believed I was worthless. Nothing has really changed on that front, I guess. I still feel like an outsider. But it was okay before, because I had _them_.

Who do I have now?


End file.
